December rushed – it seems – lilypad eyes and cold button feet. Hollowed out coats waiting to be wanted. And all the trills of nut shells cracking under your feet. And all the weight of America cracking under your feet. And all the rot of the rangling circus ringing around your ears. The propaganda, the fleshless carpet bags, the windless horse race still running. Winner-less America. Wind-less weather. Manufactured weather. Geo-engineering. Manufactured fractures in our frictionless fiction of a first amendment.

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